


Tales from the American Wasteland

by Retel



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 3, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Capital Wasteland, Fallout, Fallout New Vegas - Freeform, Mojave Wasteland, post apocalyptic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-05
Updated: 2015-05-26
Packaged: 2018-03-29 05:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,092
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3884188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Retel/pseuds/Retel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>War. War never changes.</p><p>Since the dawn of time, creation has waged war on itself, across the sea and land, across the cosmos and microverse. Stars consume themselves, even as black holes consume all else, all in an effort to survive. Man kind, since its grassroots days as primative, ape-like creatures, had a special knack for warfare. Even then, humans raged against creatures both like and unlike themselves, securing dominance on this rock we call home.</p><p>And now, thousands of years later, we return to those days of lone tribes, striving for dominance.</p><p>In the American Wasteland, there are many stories to be told; the Lone Wanderer, the Vault Dweller, the Courier... Legends who exist, or may have never existed, in a distant future, or in your present, if you're reading this from your Vault's standard issue Pip-boy. Sit back, and ready yourself for the stories of the American Wasteland.</p><p>(Assumes NCR won the war against Caesar, but was weakened in the ensuing years, and that the Lone Wanderer brought down the Enclave.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

> _**PROLOGUE** _
> 
> _**SAVIO** _

 

Savio Candlewell sat in a dark corner of the Atomic Rangler, his ugly arming sword stretched across his lap, his hand running a whetstone along its edge, sharpening it to a fine, razor-like point. The Desert Ranger was accustomed to all types of fighting; gun, melee, he'd even worked the rocket launchers in an NCR vertibird some years back, and if there was one thing he'd had drilled into his head from his time with the New California Republic, it was maintenance. Sharpening your knives or swords, patching your coat, cleaning your guns; it was all beyond important. A dull sword wouldn't cut through a centaur's tentacles, and a clogged gun would take off your hand, if you weren't careful. All this he had learned as he climbed the ranks; recruit, grunt, foot soldier, comm officer... He'd gone through them all. He'd risen high during the war with the Brotherhood of Steel, and earned the Black Armor during the first battle of Hoover Dam. It was after that, as the war with the Legion came to a stand still, that he'd left the NCR. One night, during his patrol along the Dam, he'd spotted a massive creature up along one of the ridges. No sooner than he'd clicked on his night vision than the creature vanished- literally vanished, starting with the top of its head, then ending with its feet. He flipped to heat tracking, but by then the beast was gone. None of the radars could detect it, and the night passed without further incident. No one believed his report, just presumed he'd been sleep deprived.

Two nights later, however, the NCR realized its folly. A drove of Nightkin, Supermutants who abused the infamous Stealth Boys, descended on the Dam. Three dozen soldiers were lost in the fighting, most of them abducted, the rest slaughtered. The Nightkin were, thankfully, fought off in the end.

But Savio had been taken. A large portion of his life- a full month after that- was lost to him. He recalled a vat of radioactive waste, and then nothing. When finally he awoke, he was in chains, in a cell, in the dark. When he spoke, his voice rasped grossly. "Help," he'd called, before springing backwards in shock. "Oh, oh god... N...no, no no no-"

But yes. He could tell, as his eyes adjusted and he looked down at his hands. Somehow, some way, he'd been turned into a ghoul.

It was a week before the Nightkin drew him from the Cell, having realized that the Waste had changed him. Though he hadn't turned into a Supermutant, as they surely intended, he was a ghoul, and that was a step above human, in their eyes. He didn't bother to learn their names, but knew them by their rolls. 

"You will lead us against the Humans at the Dam," the Leader said.

"Why, of course," Savio replied, a plan forming in the depths of his mind. "But I'll need my gear. The Black Armor, I'm sure you remember it?"

It took literal  _hours_ of describing the armor for the daft Leader to catch on. At last, however, the pre-war Riot Gear was brought out. Savio dressed himself in it, tugged the leather trench coat on, and pulled the helmet on over his ugly head. "I'll also need my weapons,  _brother_ ," he'd said. His words dripped sarcasm, but the Nightkin, thankfully, were so fried from the Stealth Boy abuse that they never realized. They brought him the arming sword, the Plasma Defender, and the Service Rifle. Savio smiled behind his helmet, crossing his arms. "And, finally, I'll need my radio... If you don't have it, I'll need  _any_ radio. I'll trick the NCR, so they'll never see you coming."

Of course, they fell into his ploy.

"This is NCR Ranger Savio Candlewell, over," he'd said. "and there is a Super Mutant force coming to you en mass. Many of them may be using Stealth Boys; I advise mines. Lots of mines."

And so Savio had lead the Nightkin clan up to the Dam, and then said, "Give me a stealth boy, and I'll go and assassinate the Commander. As soon as you hear sirens,  _charge._ " And then, using the Stealth Boy, Savio snuck past the mines and swung around the side of the Dam, scaled the walls, and made his way to the watch tower. He revealed himself, and revealed the plan.

The sky was alight with explosives and gunfire, and then the Nightkin were no more. But that had been Savio's last battle as a member of the NCR; he felt he'd gone through too much to keep on with the army, and left as soon as he could, keeping his gear.

After the NCR defeated the Legion, Savio wandered back and forth between the Mojave and California, until, eventually, he got word of a caravan preparing to head off to a distant land called  _Washington D.C._

And so, here he was, seated at Freeside's premier Casino. Nearly half a decade had past since the second Battle of the Dam, and the NCR had grown weak, its hold on the Mojave slipping. While they still held New Vegas and the Dam, everything in between was wrought with factions and warfare. Warfare that Savio felt was too much for a lone Desert Ranger to handle. It was time to move on from the Mojave and from the New California Republic.

It was time to make his way to somewhere new.

It was time to seek out the fabled City of Ghouls, out East.


	2. The Tank that Wanders

** Roderick **

Roderick stood behind the newest Knights, his Tri-beam Laser Rifle cradled between his hands. The Knights- all found in the past three years, all trained intensely to make up for those that were lost at the hands of the Enclave- were scrappy, clever, and, most importantly,  _young._ So few were of a young enough age to insure the future of the Brotherhood now; this was a godsend.

Some years ago, Roderick had also been a Knight, during the War with the Enclave. The Lone Wanderer had helped destroy President Snow, and the eventual downfall of the Enclave, then, was guaranteed. After a second battle, the Enclave was all but banished from the Capital Wasteland, and the Lone Wanderer set off for destinations unknown. In the years since, the Brotherhood had set up two new strongholds throughout the Capital Wasteland; one included the ex-Enclave base, Ravenrock. The other was what used to be Vault 101, which had opened to the public and, in exchange for protection, allowed the Brotherhood to operate out of it.

He'd risen to Paladin-hood in the second battle at the Air Station, and had since become one of the first ever Recruiters for the Brotherhood; his duty was to wander the Capital Wasteland, finding able-bodied men and women to fill the rolls of Scribes, Knights, Paladins, and someday, even Elders. He would station in one of the bases for months at a time to help train the recruits he delivered, then set off again, to make his rounds of the area. In his travels, he'd run across bandits, Super Mutants, remnants of the Enclave, Brotherhood Exiles... He'd seen it all, and put down anything that threatened the peace. His heroism and job caused him to become known as the Tank that Wanders, for his T-45d Power Armor that made him look like a steel giant.

As the day's precision training came to a close, Roderick set off for the Labs. The Citadel had huge labs, which once housed the robotic giant Liberty Prime. He'd been destroyed in the War with the Enclave, but the Scribes and Scientists from Rivet City had been using some of his parts and schematics to upgrade guns, securitrons, armor, and various other baubles, all of which could only benefit the Brotherhood. Better guns and armor meant stronger Paladins and Knights; better computers meant smarter Scribes. Tougher securitrons meant more Paladins could journey out on scouting missions, and more water caravans could travel the Wastes at more frequent intervals.

All in all, things were looking up for both the Capital Wasteland and the Brotherhood. 

All in all, everyone was looking up.

Roderick was looking up, and what he saw caused more confusion, than anything else. Across one of the screens in the Lab was a strange face, made up in strange paint, wearing a strange helmet.

"Brotherhood of Steel," said the face. "This is not the first time we have crossed with the likes of you. Your ilk helped to turn us away from the Hoover Dam, and that will not go unpunished. I, Octavian, hereby declare war on both you, and the Capital Wasteland. My betters might have spared you, but they are dead-" the face was joined by a hand, waving a bloody knife, "Or otherwise... Disabled."

The camera turned, panning across a vast camp; a sea of crimson, of fires and blood and death. A town was ablaze in the distance; black smoke filled the air.

"We are Cae-... No. We are Octavian's Legion.  _My_ Legion.  _Expect us."_

The screen cut to black, and Roderick noticed, for the first time, the dead silence which had filled the room. And, just like that, the Scribes were running, scrambling to computers, books, magazines, telecoms, maps; their first instinct, when it came to the unknown, was research. Roderick scanned the swarm, then slipped in, walking and reaching out for one of the senior Scribes, Eldwall... Who was also, in back hallways and hidden rooms, referred to as the Whispering Crone. She seemed to know all, well before all knew. Roderick gripped the old woman's shoulder, pulling her into an emptier part of the room so that they could speak.

"What," he asked, more serious than alarmed, "in the  _hell_ was that?"

Eldwall slid one of her bone thing hands into the sleeves of her robe, then produced a sheet of paper. It was the transcript of a recording, dated 2281. 

 _...We don't know where they came from, but they are approaching en mass. As far as the eye can see, red. Red, and red, and red... They chant, they yell and howl and rave. A scout that has since gone silent, reported fires everywhere they had passed. We_ need  _backup. The NCR, The Brotherhood, The Enclave, fuckin'_ House  _, if you're hiding out there, somewhere... We. Need. Help._

 _The Legion is on our doorstep._   _Send. Help._

Roderick blinked, then handed back the paper. "Where are they coming from?"

"West," Eldwall said softly.

"Then we need to send our forces to Raven Rock-"

"We already have Vertibirds on the offensive, but there are so many... They have robots, guns, some of them even have a primitive Power Armor. They've salvaged from those which they slaughtered; the Brotherhood is not big enough. We cannot win."

The Tank that Wanders worked his jaw, bit the inside of his cheek, deep in thought.

"Then we need somewhere to defend from. To weather the storm."

"We are here, safe, at the Citadel."

"And what about the settlements? Megaton, for starters, Big Town..."

"They will fall," Eldwall stated solemnly. Her thin silvery hair blew gently, a draft running through the room. Roderick ran a gloved hand through his platinum mop of curls, his dark eyes studying the elderly Scribe.

"What about the Vaults?"

A touch of a smile graced Eldwall's lips. "If, in the ensuing months, a force of Knights and Paladins were to clear out and secure the Vaults scattered around the Wasteland... And  _if,_ those Paladins and Knights could then escort scientists and scribes to get said Vaults in working condition, then we might be able to secure a fair number of citizens."

"Will you deliver this...  _Theoretical_ plan to Elder Lyon?" 

"It will reach his ears, I'm sure," Eldwall said. 

The Whispering Crone allowed a yellow, brittle grin, and then tittered and shambled off into the swarm of Scribes.


	3. The Stomper of Bugs and the Walker of Sands

** Suzanne **

_Crush, crush, smush,_  thought Suzanne.  


_Sizzle, burn, pop!_ He thought on.

Suzanne was a he, or, as far as he was concerned, he was a he now. Maybe once he was not a he, but he was certainly not a she now, though, if her under bits were to judge, she wasn't anything. Or maybe he was everything. She didn't really care about that all that much; no, he did not care at all.

Suzanne was laughing gleefully, his Incinerator spewing out wonderful blazing orbs of fire and plasma and smoke and  _death._ She loved her Incinerator, almost as much as he loved his straw hat and big boots she'd found in the gift shop. That gift shop, some years ago, some many, many years ago. Oh, that gift shop. She'd found sandals and flesh and boots and guns and... And... Actually, come to think of it, maybe it wasn't a gift shop. Maybe it was some kind of military base. Suzanne took a look down at himself, at the armor that was embedded in parts of her skin, the torn flowery dress that was draped over other parts of his skin... Suzanne was pretty, Suzanne decided. So was fire; fire, that consumed the ugly red Cazadors. Suzanne hated the Cazadors; they swarmed and stung and made him woozy and sick. Nothing made Suzanne as sick as Cazadors; not radiation or humans or bullets or other people like Suzanne. Big, green, or gray, or purple people who said that Suzanne was just  _weird,_ even for a  _Supermutant._ And maybe she was; Suzanne didn't mind weird. Weird, like fire, and himself, was a pretty thing. The Wasteland was weird. Before the war, America had been weird. Suzanne remembered a phone she'd once owned, and discovering that something called a Government was listening in on it. How  _weird!_ How beautifully, prettily,  _weird._

Suzanne, some time later, had gathered up the ugly burnt Cazadors, and an abundance of ancient and rotten wood, and made herself a great and mighty fire. She roasted the Cazador flesh and ate it, crisp and burnt, bones and blood and veins and organs and all. Suzanne ate her kills, because she vaguely recalled a nice man, maybe a father, telling her to give back to nature what she took. And he certainly didn't want to let down that fond face of her dreams. His dreams? Actually, Suzanne decided, she and he were not right to fit her. Nor were it, or they, or them, or Philanthripist, or Rabid Radioactive Mess- that one she'd heard a few dozen years ago, before she'd been Super, and had just been  _mutant._ Suzanne could not really decide which terms she liked, and couldn't think of anything especially good to replace them with. He decided that all of them would work. They then threw back their head, howling. She liked to howl. He liked to howl. Every cell which manifested Suzanne's hulking, mutated, possibly immortal body, liked to howl.

The night wore on, and Suzanne ate her dead Cazadors, and sang songs of adventure and relative madness to the fire and the moon, and later, she fell backwards and slept until the sun rose. When that happened, Suzanne discovered that she was not quite alone anymore; a thing in a coat with red eyes was sitting on the other side of the fire, and it was watching her, but unlike most things, it wasn't killing her. "WHAT ARE YOU?" Suzanne asked, or rather, howled, as she did most of her sentences.

The thing in the coat cocked its head and shrugged. It pulled of its head, revealing another head, with very dark skin and very chocolatey eyes, and also, very black hair. "PRETTY," howled Suzanne.

The thing shrugged again. "Yeah, guess I am," the thing said. 

"PRETTY VOICE," replied Suzanne.

The thing stood, its other head between its arm and hip. Its other hip, the one that was not holding a helmet, held a gun. Suzanne liked guns. But Suzanne liked her Incinerator more. It was currently strapped to her hip, across her body, by a big chain she'd found. She hadn't found it at the gift shop. Maybe she hadn't found it at all. Maybe it had found her.

"Name's Lawrence. Did some rangings down into Old Mexico, meant a lot of folks like you. Super Mutants that was mostly human. Y'all all just have this vibe to ya. Figured I'd stop by when I saw ya sleepin', keep watch. Whatchya name, supes?"

Supes. Suzanne liked that. Supes, Super, the Supe's... Yeah.

"YEAH!" The supe said out loud, and then, "THE SUPE'S NAME IS SUZANNE. LAWRENCE IS PRETTY."

Lawrence chuckled, then tugged his other head back on. "Where ya headed, Suzanne?"

"SUZANNE IS MAKING CAZADORS  _BURN,_ " replied the supe. 

"How's about I tag along? We can make our way to New Vegas, I's gotta get my contracts renewed with the NCR. Might be ol' Lawrence can get you a job, yeah? How'd you like some new threads, some spendin' money, even a bit uh' new ammo for that there Incinerator?"

"SUZANNE WILL FOLLOW THE PRETTY THING," Suzanne replied. The Pretty Thing chuckled again, then threw a bag over his shoulder. It hung across his body.

"A'ight then, Suzanne. It's a few days to New Vegas, so you just stick close, a'ight? Lots uh' folk still think everything green is evil. I'll make sure no one mistakes you for one o' them Nightkin or nothin'."

Suzanne and Lawrence set off as the Sun did, trekking West as it did. By the time the sun had made its way from East to West, the duo had set up camp atop a cliff, overlooking the many plateaus and vast expanses of sand of the desert. On the horizon, they could just see the New Vegas lights. They dined on Cazador and Coyote, and told tales of their adventures.

Suzanne, in a rare, somber state of thought, recalled the early days.

"ONCE," the somber supe said, "SUZANNE WAS A THING LIKE YOU. SUZANNE DOES NOT REMEMBER WHAT THIS SUPE LOOKED LIKE, BUT THIS SUPE KNOWS SHE WAS SMALL. VERY PALE, VERY WHITE. THIS SUPER WORE A LOT OF BLACK, BUT LIKED FLOWERY THINGS IN SECRET. THIS SUPE REMEMBERS BEING YELLED AT FOR THE FLOWERY THINGS.

"THIS SUPE," Suzanne continued, "REMEMBERS HOW BRIGHT THAT DAY WAS. MY PARENT THING, HE MADE ME ENTER A DEEP HOLE IN THE GROUND, BUT I SAW THE EXPLOSIONS IN THE DISTANCE. IT GOT VERY BRIGHT, EVEN DEEP DOWN. SIRENS AND SCREAMS, AND THEN THE SCREAMS OF THINGS THAT ARE TOO SMALL TO SCREAM. AND THEN ONE DAY, THIS SUPE WAS WALKING, AND EVERYONE WAS SCARED OF ME. THINGS GO BLURRY AFTER THAT. I REMEMBER WAKING UP, WITH ROPES AND CHAINS. I USED THE CHAINS. I FOUND MY PRETTY ARMOR AND INCINERATOR. I WAS FREE."

Lawrence listened patiently, quietly confused but feigning understanding. He figured, maybe, Suzanne had been one of those ghouls that came from before the Fall, and survived all those years down in some bunker. Then she- he? Suzanne had been using "supes" like a pronoun... Lawrence quietly rubbed his thumb against his temple. He wanted to be accepting, but inventing a pronoun threw him off awfully bad. He made a mental note to figure it out later, when he and his new friend were safely seated at the Embassy.

In turn, Lawrence shared a tale from one of his rangings.

"This was back before the Hoover Dam became NCR Territory, mind you. I was leading a small troop of NCR Rangers across the Desert, and we stumbled across this... This  _thing._ Not a vault, because it wasn't numbered, but it was this big door, stretched a good twenty feet across the ground. Part of it was ripped open. Now, this was a scouting mission; it was, unfortunately, our job to investigate every oddity we encountered, along with mapping out the region we were exploring. This was back when we had a big rivalry with the Brotherhood of Steel, so's they had us tryin' to find old tech to bargain with.

"So, we get some rope and flip on our radars and nightvision, and we dive down into this non-vault. Me, bein' the most experienced Ranger, went down first. It was at least fifty feet, inchin' my way down, just me, a rope, my feet, and this sleek, steel wall. When I hit bottom, it's nothin' but  _wetness._ My first instinct, 'course, was that, ' _oh, shit, I'm standin' in blood and viscera.'_ Once a few of my buddies got down, we was able to figure it out; this was water, leakin' up from some pipes under the floor. The 'viscera' was just mud and fluff and old world furniture. With our initial fears put to rest, we plunge into this dark expanse, and we's walkin' for miles 'n miles..." Lawrence went on to describe the monotonous hiking, and, due to the supes's state of somberness, the supe slipped off into a profound train of thought.

Eventually, Lawrence reached the juicy details, and Suzanne tuned back in. 

"A whole fuckin'  _nest_ of centaurs just sittin' there, where, I'm more 'n certain, there once had been a happy family, waitin' out the nuclear winter. Someone, or some  _thing,_ had come in and mutated them... We put 'um all t' rest, before they put  _us_ to rest, and high tailed it out of there. Our radars were pickin' up a shit  _fuck_ ton more activity along that same tunnel. None o' us wanted t' stick around and see what was what. So... I've been thinkin', all these years, there's some sorta group out there, mutatin' people. My buddy, from after Hoover Dam fell- I was stationed on the Dam all the way up until that Courier kid helped win us the war- he got taken and mutated into a Ghoul. Poor man couldn't recall much of what happened, but we put down them Mutants what done it to him, investigated their base. We found some notes, ya see, said shit like, "We need you to strike the Dam. We've got a new formula." But there was no indication to who had sent it, ya know? Just... Just these initials.  _J.E."_

"J.E. ARE AN UGLY PAIR OF LETTERS," Suzanne replied. She did not know why she found them ugly, but she felt that they were.

"I agree wit'cha, supes." Lawrence set his other head down by the rock he'd been sitting on, then slid down to its base and leaned back, resting his head on the part he'd been sitting on. "G'night, Suzanne. Few more days, 'n we'll be sittin' pretty in New Vegas. Get 'chu signed on as an NCR Special Forces Unit, maybe even have ya put up with my unit. It's just me, now. Could use a partner."

"WHY IS IT JUST YOU?" The supes asked.

Lawrence did not chuckle. He seemed to frown. 

"Long story," he replied, and then he did not reply. He slept, or at least, pretended to.

Suzanne also slept. Or, at least, tried to.


	4. Vault 108

** Roderick **

"I am sick and tired of... Of..."

"Gary?"

" _YES!"_

"Gary," responded Gary.

"Christ. At least this one isn't...  _Murderous,"_ said one of the Knights.

Roderick pointed at one of several working computers. "Scribe Jensen, get on that. I want every document on this Vault's experiments that hasn't been contaminated. I want to know why they're all this... Gary, and then I want to know what the machines can be used for, besides cloning a psychopath. Scribe Damien, Scribe Lamar, Scribe Lonesome, I want you three to go with Knights Jor, Klementine, and Cardswerth. Locate any and all tech, computers, weapons- anything we can use to fortify this Vault, or to pull up its secrets. Everyone else, you're to scour the Vault and locate any broken valves, water systems, et cetera; I want clean water and oxygen by tomorrow morning. Paladin Dorne, Paladin Wreck, you split up with the groups. Squire Daryl, with me; this is our quarters now." Roderick threw down his bags by a bed in the corner, then moved up close to the Gary, while the Brothers and Sisters of Steel spread out to do their duties. Roderick gripped Gary's collar, putting his helmet up against the creature's face. "Now, you.  _Talk."_

 

 _" **GARY!"**_ Responded Gary. Roderick kicked it in the gut. **  
**

"Try again. _English._ "

"Gary?... Garygl...Garglis....Gargenlgl....eng...Engli...EngARY!"

"For fuck's..." Roderick shoved the thing against the wall. "Tie it up," he ordered whoever was in earshot. A few Knights who were lingering to hold the Quarters rushed forward, tying up the Gary. Roderick left him lying there, removed his helmet, and sat down on his bed. He rubbed his temples, cracked his neck. He layed down, sat up, paced. He looked over Scribe Jensen's shoulder, reading a bit of nonsense from one of the earliest reports. He paced some more. Prodded at the Gary, but only got various pitches and lengths of the word 'Gary.' He sharpened a knife, cleaned his guns, took stock of all the supplies. He typed a report into the portable laptop that was given to him by Elder Lyon. He stretched, exercised, stripped off and cleaned his armor, one piece at a time. Put the armor back on, paced some more; he read the Big Book of Science that one of the Scribes had left lying around, but eventually got bored and tossed it back to the desk he'd found it on. He polished the eye lense on his helmet, put the helmet back on, then banged his head against a wall.

He didn't sleep that night, instead opting to take the long watch while the Knights slept. Most of the Scribes stayed up, having broken some of the more complex encryptions. They sipped on coffee (in times of crisis, the Brotherhood of the East had developed ways of taking portable equipment everywhere, making for a movable Stronghold. This included laptops, coffeemakers, even something called a solar microwave. It was beyond impressive, and most of it ran on the same energy cells that their weapons ran on. To make matters better, they had a portable recycling table, meaning they almost never ran out of power.) So setting up a temporary base here in Vault 108 was beyond feasible, but that wasn't the purpose; the purpose was establishing a secure and safe environment that could act as a permanent base for Civilians and Brotherhood members alike.

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Scribe Damien and Knight Cardswerth returned, the Scribe grinning and the Knight bored. "We've got the central power unit working, which you might have noticed from the air cooling down and the lights brightening. The rest of our group have gathered all weapons or... Potential weapons in the center of the Vault. We found a map- it appears we are currently standing in the Captain of the Guard's room. Our scribes and Knights are set up in the Overseer's office. All the debris has been cleared between here and there, and barricades are set up all around the potential attack points. A large number of Gary's have been killed or captured, and a few turned out to be actual people, hiding in here and blending in with the Clones. We interrogated them, and found that there is a small tunnel in the bottom of the Vault that leads out into a subway system. Paladin Dorne took several Knights down to close it off, and reported back as successful earlier this morning; he remained near the bottom of the Vault to check for any other tunnels, traps, or raiders. All in all, this whole affair is going better than anyone could have guessed."

Roderick was relieved at that, but still felt tense. "What about the Vault Door? Has that been closed off?"

Knight Cardswerth spoke up. "Paladin Kirk and his squad are still holding that entrance. They barricaded as best they could, but the door hasn't been shut yet; the power is back on, but it seems like everything has to be running properly before the Door will function properly. Water, oxygen, heating, all that jazz. So far, they've reported a handful of mole rats and a few prospectors poking through, but they didn't stick around long."

Roderick nodded. "Fetch me when the work is done."

Roderick went back to pacing, taking stock, stretching, sharpening. He ate a breakfast of InstaMash and Coffee, skimmed through a magazine about gun maintenance. He went back to Scribe Jensen. "Let me read one of the more interesting bits," he said. Jensen shrugged and pulled up a report from 2072.

_We can hear the bombs dropping. It's safe to say, this cloning system will most definetely be fundamental in repopulating the world. Gary seems uncomfortable with his role as the framework for the next generations of Mankind, but hey, I'd be ecstatic to be that important. Gary is. So is Gary. But damn, Gary needs to lighten up._

"Pre-war folks were weird," grumbled Roderick. And then he paced some more.

The routine of taking stock, pacing, exercising, went on for another day. Then he set up a small shooting range, and drilled the handful of Knights who were holding the Captain's Quarters with him. For a week, they remained cooped up while the rest of the band of Brothers scoured the Vault for secrets, repairing it as they went. Finally, after what felt like an eternity to a man that was used to wandering the Wastes freely, the work was done. Scribe Jensen had pulled up all the documents he could, and discovered that the tunnel in the bottom of the Vault had been created by accident in the founding of the Vault. one of the bombs smashed through the subways, and the radiation leaked through, killing most of the Vault Dwellers. The original Gary died, but his clones cloned themselves, becoming madder and madder as time drew on. And, eventually, the Vault was thoroughly decimated by years of disrepair. The documents began to be filled by 'Gary, gary, gary,' aside from a few reports by Prospectors who wandered in, and the new ones Jensen had been filling out.

Knight Cardswerth and Scribe Damien reported that the water, heating, cooling, power- everything was online. The Vault Door was able to shut and open freely, and all of the Garys were either exterminated or captured, all of the Raiders interrogated and either put to death or given a second chance. All cracks and tunnels were closed off, all weapons secured in the rooms that the Brotherhood had been renovating for personal use. The rooms that would house Civilians were cleared out and cleaned; the kitchens were put into working order. The Vault was, for the most part, livable. Now all that remained was waiting for the Citadel to send a larger force to round up Civilians and hold the Vault as a new Base,

In the weeks that followed, the Scribes broke down, studied, and put back together the Cloning Machines. They found the imperfections and perfected them, using one of the Raiders they'd captured and let live as an experiment. His clone was completely normal, as were his second and third clones. They cloned the clones, and that was when they found what had gone wrong; when a clone was cloned, it was fractured, almost mindless, and only functioning on base instincts. They then killed the faulty clones, set up a tighter perimeter around the Machines, and fell into discussions of whether this was even ethical.

"If we can clone raiders, knights, and Paladins, we'll have an army fit to face down the Legion," said Paladin Dorne.

"If we clone our men, what will we do when the War ends? Dozens of people with the same memories, the same lives, but without the same home to return to. It'd be  _madness._ " Paladin Roderick disliked the idea.

And it went on like that until, nearly a month later, nearly eight dozen Civilians and twice as many Brothers and SIsters of Steel arrived. The Scribes all flocked to the machines, teaching each other the secrets and uses of them. An Elder was chosen- Paladin Wreck, who was neutral on the subject of Cloning and was least likely to abuse the machines, but would also allow experimentation. With that settled, Paladin Roderick and Paladin Dorne rounded up their crew- excusing a few Scribes to continue teaching the secrets of Vault 108- and set off for the next Vault.


	5. The Dustiest Roads

Savio

The Ghoul was crouched down behind an ancient and rusted sixteen wheeler, his ugly arming sword in one hand and a revolver he'd picked off one of the fallen Caraveeners in the other. He'd had to sell his plasma pistol after the first bandit raid to pay for passage East for him and the surviving travelers; he'd sold most of his ammo, a number of supplies... Virtually everything but the clothes on his back and the sword he'd had since before the incident. Savio Candlewell had earned the Black Armor and the leather duster, and he would not part with them, nor the helmet that had hid his face for so many years.

On the other side of the sixteen wheeler, and spanning for miles and miles and miles, was a sea of red. At first, it'd been stragglers, wanderers, bloodied and left on the outskirts of the massive camp. The Caraveeners and Savio dealt with them accordingly, but enough of the starved Legionaries escaped back into the red sea, and alerted stronger, better soldiers of Savio and friends. By nightfall, a large party of the Legionaries descended on the Caravan, slaughtering many and kidnapping more. Savio escaped by way of being a ghoul; it was easy to play dead when you were suffering from mild Necrosis. Being a walking corpse did have its perks.

When the brunt force of the Legionaries broke off, Savio rose onto his feet. He drove the sword through one Legionary's throat, and hacked the head clean off of another. By the time the third and fourth realized what was happening, he'd driven the sword through five's heart. The Ghoul spun, reaching for a plasma pistol that was not there; he realized, too late, it had been stolen. He was shot once through the leg, and twice through his left shoulder, but that didn't stop him. He yanked a 9mm pistol from five's hip and shot down the remaining two Legionaries, then finally stopped to free his sword. Figuring he had at least an hour before the rest of the party returned, he picked equipment and goods off of the fallen.

Savio Candlewell, unfortunately, was once known as "The Broken Calender," because he'd always been bad with time, dates, and everything in between. He only knew when to sleep because the moon told him so. When to rise because the sun rose. It was one of the problems that becoming a ghoul caused; severe memory lapses and loss of certain... Skills. Of course, he gained other skills in return. One was fast healing; radiation caused his body to produce cells rapidly, as if he were made of a tumor instead of flesh. Another was heightened senses, such as hearing and strength.

So he _heard_ the footsteps and shouting, but left a trail in his escape. Loose ammo and food fell from his half closed bags, but he couldn't stop to fix it, not for nearly ten minutes. He zipped and buttoned the bags once he was safely behind a ridge, but the damage was done; they'd have his scent, and it wasn't exactly hard to figure out where a lone man was going. Not on this road. Because this road went only one way; East. Straight between two mountains for miles and miles. The Caraveeners called it the Long Valley. Savio knew it as the Dusty Trail.

The Dusty Trail was certainly within sight, and on any normal occasion, he might have reached it by nightfall. But looking out across the sea of red, the ex-Ranger could tell this journey would not be an easy one. A large outlying camp of Legionaries was nested on the cracked and beaten down highway, lying between him and the Dusty Trail.

Between him, and East.

Yes; they lied between Savio, and the City of Ghouls.

The ghoul slid down onto his rear, pulled his helmet off, and massaged his temples. Sooner or later the party that was hunting him would catch up, and the fighting would bring the whole army down on him. So he had two options; try to backtrack and somehow avoid the hunters... Or...

The Ghoul pulled his helmet back on, and dug around in his bags until he found the one other souvenir he'd kept, all these years. He clamped it down around his wrist and pressed the three buttons; black, purple, and red. And then he lost sight of his body. Instantly, the Ghoul felt his mind light up, as if he'd overdosed on Jet and Buffout at the same time. He sat there for five minutes, reigning in the flood of urges and emotions, gripping tight to his humanity and sanity. It took longer than the last time he'd used a Stealth Boy, and when he finally had control, his heart was racing and his eyes, he thought, were watering.

 _Fear._  

_Feral._

Two words, and for just a moment, he'd experienced both.

The Ghoul Ranger gathered himself, then started making his way through the Sea of Red, and to the Dusty Trail. 

 


	6. Maybe You'll Think of Me

Dalia Sand and Jamie of 101

Dalia speared the scorpion meat with her combat knife, held it over her head, and let the greasy morsel slowly slide from the immaculate weapon and into her mouth. She grinned a slimy grin at the prisoners, then chewed the morsel thoughtfully. She took a swig of Sunset Sarsaparilla to wash it down, then stabbed the beautiful knife into the arm of her chair. Her hair was bright red, and while ratty, seemed to hold some sense of beauty. It looked like living fire, matching her sandy brown eyes perfectly. Her skin was tanned by the sun, her clothes tanned leather colored crimson. She tilted her head and smiled, her teeth far too white; dental hygiene was something only heard of in places like the NCR holdings of California, the Common Wealth, and maybe parts of the Capital Wastes. But in the middle of an army of savages...

"I suppose you all recognize that I am Emperor Octavian's Legate... Yes?" She offered another smile, then pulled a second knife from a belt strung across her crimson leather armor. This one's handle was ebony, carved to look like a running horse. "I want all of you to fight to the death. The last man standing gets to _try_ to be a Legionary. The rest... Well, Charla needs to eat. I'd'n't that right, Charla?" The Legate whistled, and a large hound emerged from the shadows of Dalia Sand's tent. Its spine protruded from its skin, tentacles not unlike those of a Centaur writhed and squirmed out from the spaces between the spine, dangling down the beast's ribs. Its head was massive, teeth razor sharp. Its tongue dripped poisonous radioactive waste, and its eyes... They looked almost  _human._

Dalia grinned, then gestured for the prisoners to be unbound. Her legionaries formed a large perimeter, and a variety of melee weapons were thrown in the general direction of the contestants. Dalia pulled the first knife free of the table and held it high in the air. "Ready?" She called. With a flick of her wrist, the knife flew through the air and landed perfectly in the dirt, dead center.  _"Begin."_

* * *

 

Jamie sprung forward, yanked the knife (its handle was carved to look like the two headed bear of the NCR, but with one head chopped off) free of the dirt, and used his momentum to spring into one of a dozen other prisoners. He buried it in the man's face, twisted, then yanked it free in time to parry a club. He rammed his knee into the second man's groin, then jammed the knife between his ribs. Again he twisted, yanked free, then moved on to the next opponent. By now, however, most of the remaining prisoners had gathered themselves. One held a sword which was already covered in blood, while another had a large wooden shield and the second knife (this one shaped like a horse.) Jamie slowed down, realizing quickly he was no match for those two. Thankfully, the other eight or so fighters were forming teams behind either of the two fighters; four joined the man with the shield, four joined the man with the sword. 

The two crowds clashed, and Jamie took the opportunity to rush the man with the shield. Jamie slipped behind the crowd, and took one fighter in the back, driving the dagger into his cerebellum. The blonde warrior spun on his heel, practically dancing through the other three fighters; he disarmed one, slew another, and knocked the third unconscious with a blow to the skull. The fourth, the one with the shield, was easier than them all; he was so pumped with adrenaline, he never noticed his fighters deteriorate to nothing. Jamie stabbed him in the back, grabbed the shield, and threw the bear shaped knife into the chest of the swordsman.

By then, the remaining four fighters had turned on one another. Jamie dashed forward, grabbed the sword, and rushed them. 

Too late, however, he noticed how dull the sword actually was. One of the prisoners was bruised by what would have been a killing blow, and turned on Jamie. He  _laughed._ He grabbed the dull blade and threw it away, grabbed the shield, and nearly ripped Jamie's arm off. The hulking fighter- Jamie noticed the word 'Kiln' carved into his chest, which he took to be his name- lifted Jamie by the shield, then slammed the shield into the skull of one of the other three fighters. Kiln then shook until Jamie let go of the shield and fell to the ground. Jamie's eyes went wide; Kiln raised the shield high...

And then was hit by a large rock. One of the remaining prisoners stumbled, gathered herself, then brought the rock down on Kiln's arm, shattering his elbow. The shield fell and Jamie rolled, sprung to his feet, and scooped it up again. He found the horse shaped knife and drove it into Kiln's left side. The massive warrior didn't die, but he did pass out from the pain.

And then it was just Jamie and the other prisoner- the only woman in a group of nearly two dozen.

* * *

 

"Enough," Dalia Sand said at last. She moved from her seat to the center of the fight, and placed her heel on Kiln's head, her toes across his face. "You two, you'll be sorted to recruitment camps. This man...  _Kiln._ He'll make quite the pack mule." Dalia smiled, then tilted her head. The light caught her brown eyes, making them look like flames. "What are your names?"

"Jamie," the blonde one said.

"Lauren," the girl said. She was pale, short, and looked more fit for New Vegas than the wastes. She was curved, although not unathletic. Her hair was too long to have been wandering; everyone who spent more than a month in the desert resorted to a trim sooner or later. Her eyes were brown, though darker than Dalia's. 

"Well, Lauren, you're...  _Moldable_ , if nothing else. If not a Legionary, maybe you'd make a good wet nurse. And you, Jamie. You had a Pip Boy when they found you. I suppose that means..."

"I'm from the Vaults, yeah," Jamie responded. "I did maintenance on the robots and worked with the market to trade with outsiders."

Dalia grinned again. "A _Vault,_ open to outsiders? With weapons and food, maybe big enough for... At least  _part_ of an army, hmm?"

Jamie blinked, and seemed to become apprehensive. "Y...yeah, I guess. There's a town nearby, Megaton, it's got steel walls-"

"Oh, well that's  _perfect,"_ Dalia cooed.

After the failure at the dam, Octavian'd plotted a coup. He won over enough Legionaries to overpower the Legate and Caesar himself; it was the easiest thing in the world, given a low morale and wounded leaders. Rebuilding the Legion's strength had taken time, but within the year they'd gone back to raiding. The army grew and grew, and a plan formed.

 _"We need cities. A home. Ancient Rome had a capital... Hence the name,_ Rome.  _Caesar raided and burned, but... We fell. We fell because we had no where to retreat. Dalia, with you as my Legate... We will make a new Rome."_

And so the plan unfolded. The Legion traveled en mass, searching for somewhere worthy of making a seat for itself. And maybe, just  _maybe,_ this Megaton and this Vault could be that seat. They'd considered New Vegas once, but decided it was too close to the NCR's main force. So they went East.

 _Just a little more East, Octavian,_ she thought to herself.  _Just a few more months of marching._

 

 

 

 


	7. Bleedingheart Radio (1)

Kevin

_Hello Wasteland._

_Some of you out there, you're experiencing some serious problems these days. My birds- do you know what a bird is, listener? A bird is this creature, not unlike a gecko, that can_ fly.  _That's right, Wasteland, these things could fly just like a vertibird. Now, where was I?_

 _My birds, they tell me that a great, mighty sea of red has flooded the land from Nevada clear on to Illinois. Now, I feel like that just might be an exaggeration, but there certainly is an army out in the middle of the Country, and they certainly are headed East. That cool cat- or, excuse, me, he has_ dog  _in his name! Where are my manners? That Three-Dog fellow at GNR had best get security tightened, because it seems like war is headed that way. Thankfully, we here at Bleedingheart Radio are nestled safely in a secret vault nestled up in the Rocky Mountains, far, far North of all that..._ Blood filled  _nonsense._

_Now, on to some more immediate news. My friends in New Vegas tell me that has been a recent rise in Mutant activity. Supposedly, a pack of nearly thirty Centaurs descended on one of the Crimson Caravan's expeditions, and only a few of those brave men and women made it out alive. Reports say they attempted to recover the bodies a few days later, but they were irretrievable due to severe radioactivity. One of the ghouls on hand inspected the closest body, finding tentacles poking up from its mouth. They promptly doused every one of them with a flamethrower for safe measure._

_I ask you, Listeners, when was the last time you heard of a dead body growing tentacles? Or an NCR Ranger being abducted and turned into a ghoul? These last few years have been rather alarming, don't you all think? And all that nasty business with Black Mountain... Yikes, guys._ Yikes.

 _Conspiracy theories aside, let's move on to weather. In Nevada, for the first time in... Well, who keeps track anymore? Tell you all what, I'll start a tally board right now. I'm scratching a little dash in the wall... And, there we go. One. For the first time in who knows how long, it's raining._ Raining!  _Water, clean and healthy, is falling from the sky all across the Mojave, from the foot of the Rocky Mountains to the edges of California._

_Meanwhile in the Capital Wasteland, my birds are saying the sun is out and hotter than ever. Allegedly the Brotherhood of Steel over there hasn't been making the rounds with clean water. What gives, Brotherhood? When you sign on to protect a slice of land, you need to nurture it, not withhold valuable supplies. I am livid, Brotherhood! Just... Livid._

_It's snowing here, as I can see through my little window in the rocks. And, oh! A Yao Guai just caught a little rabbit. I'm very glad to be living in this Vault, Listeners. I'm simply not cut out for life on the Wastes. The Overseer sends out patrols, sure, but we're good and far away from Civilization. It's wild here, even green in some places._

_Well, I'll take you all on back to the smash hits of the 90's. Here's Green Day with_ 'Basket Case,'  _and then Elvis Presley with his... Controversial hit,_ 'I'm Not From this Universe, Please Help, Baby!'


End file.
